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Sevenfold

– No wait. Scratch that. There must have beenthe first death. Where did that come from? –

– The first death came from love, right? Yeah, there we go. –

For there to be death, there must have first been life.

For there to be life, there must be love, which can beget hate, which can beget violence, which can beget ANYTHING.

But what about love and death? Do those two things have anything to do with each other?

雨生

The hand scribbling these words moved with slow, tight, deliberate grace. The characters which formed the words were thin, large enough to read but never wasting space. The fresh binding smelled of pulp, so fresh and new that it smelled like the grass, bamboo, and trees that grew somewhere beyond the door of the storehouse. He had not closed the door very well. The night air was thick with unseasonably warm moisture. The humid air caused a tightness in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Beyond the door, there was a worn patch of ground. Beyond that, there was a field of grass, leading up to the house that stood on the property. It was an empty house, too big for him to do his work. This work, his final work as a son. It had to be, because he knew...

The house had become his because his father had acquired it, a business transaction that had been difficult from overseas. This land was quite closed off from outsiders, his father had told him. You must take care, his father had told him. If it had not been for the unusual state of this land called Fuyuki this year, such a house would not have been available to him at all. It would be sold back at the end of this affair, his father had told him.

His father had entrusted the handling of that half of the quiet transaction to his son, to be taken care of as soon as the last sacrifice had been made. When he had harnessed the power of the blood spilled out upon the ground to summon the greatest vengeful spirit his family could ever hope to hold in their thrall, to be in service to, he would wait three days for the dust to clear. It was never wise, his father had told him, to go into the presence of others while the mark, while the blood, remained upon his skin. When three days had passed, he would go back across the river and find the broker in town. He would sell the house back, letting the land be washed clean of his presence. He would disappear. He would go home.

He was his family's living son. This would be easy for him.

All of those things he had carried with him from the continent, to this island where the ritual was to take place. He had been prepared in his family's art all his life, knowing that it must be held with the utmost secrecy. He could carry himself like a traveler, he could carry himself like a stranger, he could smile at anyone while nothing in his eyes betrayed the cool center of wrath, of anger, of blood owed to another. He should try, his father had said, to never carry himself like a criminal.

One month ago, when the moon had been as full and bright as it was tonight, he had come to Fuyuki. He had smiled as he had hauled his few belongings into the house with the free, easy help of his friendly carriage driver. Leaving two wooden trunks and a satchel in the center room of the house, he had walked with the driver back out to his carriage and his horses. He waited for a moment before fishing into the small pouch at his side. From his place on the ground, he had held up an offering of several coins to the carriage driver, who pleasantly waved them off.

This had not been surprising to him. His father had taught him to expect such kindnesses, and to accept them graciously. With a bow, he had turned and gone back into the house. When it had become entirely silent, he had begun to unpack his things, hauling some of the contents of one of the trunks to the storehouse across the yard, where he now sat. He had needed to lighten the load to drag the trunk here on his own. The weight of chains was heavy and too much to carry alone.

Presently, he tried to remember where he had been in his writing. He frowned at the first page, written like a note to someone he knew. Written like a note to a friend. His eyes lifted up, surveying the dark storehouse, cast in shadows of purple and blue, the orange glow of a lantern doing little to brighten the scene. In the dark, the shadows and reflections of chains alike looked black or sickly gray, like tar. They hung from up high, coiled around rafters and positioned to a central point, over an empty space where basins or jars could be placed.

He stood up, as if drawn in by a rattle only he could hear. His movements were fluid, confident, approaching the network of chain links ended in hooks like a large cat seeking its prey. He reached over his head, his face held calm, placid, almost innocent in its gaze. He tugged smoothly down to draw one of the thick, sharp, refined hooks to center in front of his face. He turned it back and forth, examining its angrily sharp, perfectly pure, bloodless tip.

Without any change in expression, he flattened his hand until his palm was taut and a shade of reflective white. He touched the hook to his hand, hesitating only once as it felt cooler than he expected on this humid night. Then he pressed in, changing nothing as he made a cut at a diagonal, just blood-flow deep, halfway across his palm. It cut across several of the lines present there, and he wondered what that meant.

He let go of the chain when he felt the stinging from his skin start to catch up with his mind, with the flow of living red that began to trickle down across the rest of his pure, unscathed, barely calloused palm. He folded his hand into a fist, feeling the mismatched halves of skin rub against each other. They would yet heal. The blood tried to pool and press and seep through his fingers, but he went back to the book to look at its next blank page. He had to learn what to write now, on his own.

He knew one thing for certain. He had to write it down, because he was never going home.

- - - Past tense? What is past tense? This story is an attempt to learn to tell more with less prose density. We'll see how it goes. Thank you to You, who has helped me with lore, ideas, and Japanese characters.

All heroes are broken beyond repair. And all villains are just heroes who chose truth over dare.

Setting up shop in the house had not been as troublesome for him as it might have been for many of the magi who had come to the land of Fuyuki to partake in or to observe this ritual. For many magi who came to this place for the hope that they might observe or capture a miracle, there were concerns such as stone foundations and stone walls throughout their homes. There was a sudden rush to build up Western-style homes for the travelers, and many of them were wealthy enough to achieve these things with great haste. For his family's art, however, there was no need to draw so much attention, to spend so much money, or to be so conspicuous.

The house that had already been there for some time would do. Its construction was perfectly ordinary for this place. There were only a few demands his father had made of the agent he had hired to go out and find this place for his heir to call home during this battle in Fuyuki. The first had been that he wanted his son to have adequate shelter. These were the winter months, and his father had not wanted his son to spend his time shivering, wasting time on such distracting discomfort. When he had met with the carriage driver to bring his things to this house, when he had seen the influx of new arrivals who pretended to be ignorant of the reason for the bustling activity among the city's merchants and in the city's markets, who pretended to be ignorant of one another in broad daylight, it had seemed like an almost alarmingly simple concern.

These new ways of magecraft seemed quite demanding. His family's own art was very old. All of the provisions he had noticed being attended to, constructed, purchased, were all but entirely foreign to him. He had felt that he was more a stranger in this land than anyone else. Strangely, this strangeness had put him in a house that had some history, though it was unknown to him.

The rest of his father's list had been even more direct. There needed to be a building separate from the house – a storehouse of some kind. It needed a heavy door, which would lock, contrary to the more fragile design of some of the doors in this country. Above all, it needed to be on a plot of land that was unoccupied by any other home or enterprise. As far as the eye could see, outside this house, there was grass and there were trees and there was the faint scent of water somewhere. Wind blew and bugs and birds and other such things cried out on their own watches. Above all else, his father, his family, their art had a demand for silence.

雨生

Fuyuki was not silent when he returned to purchase supplies, not for magecraft but for himself. His coin purse was a bit heavier than he had planned for and finding something to fill his stomach seemed like it might calm his nerves. He had secured passage back across the river where there were more houses and more people. Because there were more people, there would be more merchants selling things. He walked on the brisk, bright morning through a gray but pleasant light. The streets were already active and restless but mostly with those who had come from far away and those who wished to take their money. He walked through the little clusters of people with his hands never straying far from being folded in front of him. He never drew too much attention but smiled easily when he drew someone's eyes.

Following his sense of smell to an area which offered some selection of food, he found the first sight in this place that had given him any pause. A white building stood a little past the row it occupied along the road. In the grass that still held root beside it, a man sat with his back to the side wall of the building.

The man had his feet planted surely on the ground, some distance apart. He wore leather boots that came some length up his shins. Beyond the boots, he wore light-colored trousers that showed beneath the haphazard folds of a dark overcoat which protected his lean form from the morning winter chill. A straw hat with a band perched atop his head, though it seemed that if he leaned his head back any further that the brim might pull it off his head with help from the wall. His hands were bare and pale and fussing with a tobacco pipe. Elbows slumped down to find resting places on his parted knees, and he focused on setting light to the pipe. He seemed disgusted with something, but then he laughed to no one but himself.

He looked aside as he laughed, as if he were trying to be discreet though, as far as he knew, no one was watching him. Beneath his hat, a tuft of gold-colored hair came down just behind his ear. He visibly took a deep breath, sighed so noisily that the sound carried, and made a haphazard gesture with the pipe. He seemed to have extinguished it and any hope of taking a draw from it. He put the pipe away and stood up. He dusted off his overcoat.

When this Western man stood up, walked back around to the front of the building, and walked up to its door, the young man from the continent realized that he had not moved for all this time. He had watched him, quietly, but he had not concealed himself from the open path. He blinked a few times and took greater stock of his surroundings. Nothing had changed, but for one dizzying moment he felt like a child who had lost his way. For a moment, he believed that he should never have left his house on this morning. At the very least, he should have performed the ritual first.

Only, there was no point in doing the ritual too soon. Not only that, but even the newer magi preferred to perform their rituals at night. He shook his head to clear it of such superstitious fantasies, squared his focus forward, and walked toward the same door he had seen the Westerner enter.

Inside, the man had removed his hat and held it. With the other hand, he rubbed at his chin. His fingers found their way up to his lips and rubbed at them as if he were trying to coax them back to life.

“Uhm... yes, you don't understand me, do you?” he asked, a rhetorical question, in English, to the man who was watching him with less patient curiosity than most of the merchants and cooks who had opened their doors to these outsiders. It was difficult to tell what exactly the visitor had done wrong, apart from, of course, using the wrong language. “I'm sorry, I—” he continued, looking down sheepishly as he drew out more than enough currency to buy himself a meal. He looked at it with a frown, as if he had never seen money before.

There was something pitiable about it. While he watched and the man looked with consternation at his local money, he noted that he glanced frantically around himself and noticed him standing there.

“I'm sorry, you can go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the cook. “I'm... having a spot of trouble this morning. As you can see.” Then he winced. “I'm sorry, again, because you probably don't understand me either and I'm standing here, holding up commerce and babbling like a madman.”

It seemed like an irresistible moment, a golden opportunity, and before he let himself think, the young man from the continent acted.

“I can help,” he chimed in, also speaking in accented English. He approached the man at once, never looking away from his eyes once he caught the other man's. “What do you need?”

The Westerner was the first one to break eye contact as he glanced toward the place where this man kept his wares.

“Well, I believe this establishment serves a sort of fish,” he said, then he laughed again – a light little laugh, meant for no one – as if he doubted even that.

Without waiting for another moment, he gave the cook a polite request in the language of his land for both himself and this Western man who seemed so lost.

“You would think that this would be the one thing I prepared for the most. But no. It... honestly did not. I don't know what I was thinking. Thank you… I believe?” the Westerner said, tentatively grateful.

The man behind the counter prepared two rolls, silent and efficient. It seemed like evidence enough.

Nevertheless, the man nodded.

“Thank you,” the Westerner repeated with a nod. Then, he was reaching for his hand, to shake it in the Western style. “I'm—” he said, but then he hesitated. His fingers curled back toward his palm as if he realized that this was as weak a skill as his language in this place. Before his fingers could retract entirely, the young man took it and gently shook his hand, holding it in the downward motion for a moment while he waited, expectantly, for him to continue. His eyes found the Westerner's again, and he looked into them. “I'm Matthew. Matthew Tanner. I'm a taxidermist, from England,” the Westerner – Matthew – explained eagerly with the little encouragement. There was an instant of silence. “And you are?”

Before he could answer, the young man from the continent's attention was drawn away by the cook, showing that their food was ready and expecting payment. He let go of Matthew's hand. Matthew fumbled for the right coins again, but he shook his head and held up his hand in a signal for him to stop. His coin purse had been heavier this morning, but one act of kindness from a carriage driver spent on another stranger was the way this young man had been raised to conduct himself. He would never draw people's ire or negative attention. This was one of the many ways his family had survived.

“Thank you,” Matthew accepted curtly. He cleared his throat. “I must repay you, though,” he said, taking his roll into his hand when it was paid for and offered to him. He kept watching the other man, caught on a hook of touched indebtedness in an instant. “Hold on, you speak English,” he said very abruptly when there was no immediate reply.

It was the young man's turn to laugh, reserved and pleasant, as he caught Matthew's eyes again.

“Yes,” he said, just to reassure Matthew that he hadn't imagined the good luck of his companionship.

For a moment, it was enough for Matthew. He grinned and his step seemed less plodding and more jovial as he went for the door.

“Thank you, sir,” he called to the cook, then he winced again, looking away as if he didn't want to see if his thanks had offended, been accepted, or fallen on ears that could not understand yet again. He quickly exited the small, white building. The young man followed behind. When he noticed, Matthew nodded back toward the patch of grass and the side of the building where he had first been seen, unknowing. “Well, come. The least I can do is keep you company while you eat. Though to tell the truth, it would be another favor to me. I haven't spoken a word anyone's understood all day. I don't know why I didn't realize it would be like this.”

“You did not know that they do not speak English—” the young man started to ask, tone innocent as a dove, but he was still interrupted in what might have been a bit of a jab.

“In Japan? Yes, I know. But there are all sorts of—merchants and immigrants here,” Matthew said.

In that moment, the young man remembered the way he had felt before he had followed Matthew. The drop of dread returned to his blood. He wasn't sure why. Matthew had hardly faltered in his speech at all, and he was not at a loss for fumbling words. It was possible that he had heard nothing in his voice at all, and even if it were true it would not matter. There would be seven of them, and he had never dreaded those odds before. It also seemed to be, in the eyes of some of those coming from England in particular, to be a spectator's sport.

Without verbal reply, the young man followed to a place just beyond where Matthew resumed his chosen seating arrangement. He began to pick at the fish, rice, and seaweed in his hands.

The young man kept watching him, if only from the corner of his eye, as he began to work at his own food. He never spoke without chewing and swallowing first, polite and almost meek with the same dubiously playful innocence.

“You do know the fish is raw,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

He noticed the faintest narrowing of Matthew's eyes. It reminded him a little of a cat, recoiling from sudden rain.

“Yes, I know it's raw,” Matthew said flatly. Then his smile returned, at least halfway, as he looked down at the roll as if he shared a secret with it. He shrugged with one shoulder. “Better raw than when the oil is half-hot, I'd say.” He ate quietly for a moment. He didn't look up again as if the task required the full, gentle concentration of his fingers. They were healthily calloused from some kind of work but looked almost torturously clean. “You never told me your name,” he said. Now that he was understood, Matthew seemed more capable of being a little charming on his own.

“It's Shun,” Shun replied easily.

“'Shun,'” Matthew repeated, looking directly at him with a raised brow. He spoke it as the English word.

“'Shun,'” Shun repeated, saying his own name correctly.

“Right,” Matthew said, clearing his throat and nodding as he seemed to believe he had it. “So what do you do, Shun?” he asked. He almost had it. Not quite.

“I'm a simple traveler,” Shun replied. He leaned comfortably against the wall of the building. When he had finished eating, placing the final bite into his mouth, he ran his fingers through the cool, damp grass. He watched them comb through it. He made no immediate effort to move.

“Ah,” Matthew said, laughing at Shun this time. He seemed to find it very funny. He even slapped at his own knee lightly. “So you're a confidence man. I might have known.”

Shun shook his head with a mild bit of denial.

“I'm only a wanderer,” he said.

- - -
Thank you to You and Leo for stuff.

All heroes are broken beyond repair. And all villains are just heroes who chose truth over dare.

This continues to be interesting, now time to struggle to remember the names of OCs.

Thanks. I know you're gone right now but anyway thread bump because I posted this in the middle of the night. Just in case anyone wants to read this OC nonsense which I doubt. I actually completely forgot about FGO "Mashu" being "Matthew" actually when I named the English guy, so just a note that this is a coincidence.

All heroes are broken beyond repair. And all villains are just heroes who chose truth over dare.